Destroy That We May Live
by DorianGray91
Summary: A new criminal lord is on the scene, and he has very different intentions to Sherlock's previous enemies. Having found an ancient casket and the story of the Spirit of Life, Holmes and Watson must pursue their quarry to Africa on their most bizarre adventure yet. For there await the ruins of Kor, a tribe of cannibals, and their immortal, beautiful female ruler, She. More inside!
1. Chapter 1

So, probably all of you will never have read or heard of 'She: A History of Adventure' by Henry Rider Haggard. It was published in a magazine in the years 1886-7, much like Sherlock Holmes originally appeared in magazines like The Strand.

It is, in short, a story about a trip to Africa on a revenge mission, which backfires on the adventurers when they discover that the woman they are supposed to be taking revenge against is supernaturally beautiful, and utterly unstoppable.

Here is a link to the synopsis. I know it sounds boring, but if you just skim through it quickly, this whole fiction will be much easier to understand, and will also be amazing!

.org/wiki/She:_A_History_of_Adventure

The reason I've written this is that 'Sherlock' and 'She' were published around the same time - but they were completely different. The whole point of Sherlock Holmes is that the supernatural doesn't exist, it's just a bag of tricks. But in 'She' the supernatural is undeniable.

I thought it would be interesting to throw together two novels of the same period and see what on earth the completely opposite characters do. For example, how does Sherlock react to this woman of supernatural beauty? How does she take to an unwelcome explorer with too much knowledge about her past?  
And how does the poor, long-suffering Watson deal with everything, especially keeping his erratic companion under control?

And most importantly, how does the novel end? With the addition of a bad guy seeking out immortality through the Spirit of Life, will they be able to stop him? What will She make of it? Will any of them become immortal? Can London and the world at large be saved?

I don't even know yet.

Give this a try and I assure you, you will love it! Please review if you enjoy it, I live off reviews! I can't write without them.

* * *

**1**

**The Shadow of Eternity.**

"Watson!"

The obnoxiously loud cry came from downstairs, at the same time that the front door slammed and Mrs. Hudson gave a shriek of pure alarm on the landing. She must have seen whatever it was he was doing or carrying.  
"Watson, I need you!"

"What have you done this time?" John sighed, long-sufferingly, and put down his newspaper and pen. There were no ink rings around any of its headlines today.  
He hoped, secretly, that Holmes had something juicy to entertain them with while the papers were currently dry.

"I need you to help me move this upstairs!"  
There was a clunk, something very heavy hitting the floorboards.  
Now _that _sounded exciting.

Watson limped downstairs immediately.  
Holmes was kneeling beside a massive iron box, and reaching into the inner pocket of his frock coat.

"Good Lord, what on earth is that?"  
"It is a mystery, Watson. A mystery we are going to solve."  
"Oh, goodie. Where did you get it?"  
"A dying man gave it to me."

"Did he give it to you, or did you offer to take it from his cold stiff hands?"  
"No, honestly. He asked me to deliver it to a man by the name of Horace Holly."  
"And are you going to deliver it?"  
"I thought I would have a little look at it first."

Holmes had by now produced whatever it was that was in his pocket, which happened to be three keys of varying sizes.  
John sighed, again, and reached down to grasp the handles of the iron box.

"It's heavy!" he gasped, letting it drop again.  
"Of course it is, old boy. That is why we shall carry it together."

Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk as they ascended the stairs together - Watson's leg miraculously showing no signs of weakness under the extended pressure.

They placed the box beside the dining table and both descended to the floor with it, Holmes sitting cross legged in his childish glee. He looked as though Christmas had come early, and that Mr. Claus had brought an extra large iron-wrapped present for him.

"Well, then." he beamed, scattering the keys onto the boards and then picking up the largest, most modern-looking one, "Would you like to open it or shall I? Yes, quite right, I'll do it."  
John didn't bat an eyelid. This was Holmes on a very good day.

The key was a little rusty, and took some time to turn, but Sherlock was patient. Eventually they prized the lid open, to reveal... another box. This one was made of wood, and covered with dust.

"Ebony." Holmes remarked, lifting it out of the case and picking up the next appropriate-looking key, "Crumbling ebony. At least a few centuries old."  
He glanced up at Watson with a mischievous glance.  
"The plot thickens."

They opened this lid rather more gingerly.  
Both men sucked in exhilarated breaths at the awe-inspiring sight.

Inside was a magnificent silver casket, about twelve inches square by eight high. It appeared to be of Egyptian workmanship, for the four legs were formed of Sphinxes, and the dome-shaped cover was also surmounted by a Sphinx.

"Oooh, that looks very old!"  
Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, peering over their shoulders. If it was possible for anybody to bustle whilst standing perfectly still, Mrs. Hudson was the woman to manage it, and she was doing it now. John found it very distracting, and apparently so did Sherlock, for he called out in a brash tone, "Tea please Mrs. Hudson!" and away she scurried downstairs.

"Watson, this looks rather authentic." he muttered, in raptures, "There can be no doubt, in fact. The tarnishing reveals it clearly. But what is _inside_?"  
"A silver key for a silver casket." Watson commented poetically.

Holmes frowned at him.

"Naturally." he retorted, before inserting said smallest silver key into the lock, and twisting it flamboyantly.  
He then waited, poised, for a few moments, to allow the tension to flourish and become beautiful. His ink and chemical-stained fingers gently lifted the last lid on its ancient hinges.

It was filled to the brim with some brown shredded material, more like vegetable fiber than paper. Holmes snatched up a strand, put it in his mouth and savoured it, turned it over in his mind for a moment, and then spat it back out.

"Also authentic." he concluded, apparently having no other connections to speak of.  
Odd, for him to have only one point upon a piece of evidence.  
It must be _really_ old, then.

Watson reached out to lift the shredded paper away, fearing that there would be nothing hidden beneath it after all.  
Sherlock immediately slapped his hand, hard, and continued with the process himself.

"Ouch!"  
"Well then, don't touch my things."

"This is a dual mystery-solving process!"  
"It is my casket!"  
"It is _not_. It's a dead man's casket."  
"Stop being so petty, Watson. You'll get frown lines."

Watson stopped being petty, because he didn't want to ruin Holmes' good mood, and also because he had a secret abhorrance of frown lines. And he had suspected that he was developing some around the brow and mouth just this morning, in the mirror. He resented that Sherlock had picked up on this already. Perhaps he was touching his face too often, or performing some other bizarrely unconscious gesture that apparently shouted out to the world that he was worrying about worry lines.

"How did you know about the frown lines?"  
"What?" his companion gazed up at him, broken out of a reverie of contemplation.  
John repeated his question impatiently.

"What frown lines? I was only riling you up, old boy. You really don't have any. Stop fretting, or you'll get fret lines."  
"Are fret lines different from frown lines?"  
"Would you really like for me to go into detail upon my new theories of the reading of a man's face by the positioning of skin grooves?"

Holmes actually looked rather hopeful that he would say yes.  
John told him, angrily, that he would rather not hear any more about it, thank you very much.

Sherlock huffed and removed the last clump of shredded paper.  
He held aloft a surprisingly modern-looking envelope that read, in a slanting scrawl, "To my son Leo, should he live to open this casket."

"That envelope has a name on it." Watson warned.  
"Well, of course it does."  
"Which means it would be rude to open it."

"My dear Watson! When have I ever solved a case by being polite to people?"  
"This isn't a case, Holmes. This is an accidental find."

"Whatever makes you think that it isn't a case?" Sherlock came back, quick as lightning.  
John stared levelly at him, trying to unravel the twisted logic of his game. There were too many gaps in his knowledge of Holmes' own knowledge to be sure of anything.

"What aren't you telling me?"  
"Why are you always so adamant? I am making this as exciting for you as it is for me! If you know everything you will dampen my high spirits, with your sensible moods. And I can't abide a fellow who drains me of my energies. You understand, Watson."

With that, he threw the envelope to one side and dived into the casket again, this time pulling out two rolled-up parchments, one ancient and one new, a small chocolate-colored composition scarabaeus adorned with Egyptian symbols, and something roundish and heavy in a cover of yellow linen.

He pounced on this latter item first, unwound the linen - and discovered a dirty yellow pot sherd, undoubtedly ancient, scrawled upon in the later uncial Greek character, for the most part perfectly legible, the inscription having been executed with the greatest care.

"Reed pen used to write it." Holmes observed, inspecting the red-coloured letters, "I need a translation. Aha!"  
He grabbed the ancient scroll and found it to be a direct translation in black-letter Latin.  
"Why does nobody make it easy for me?" he sighed.

Then he opened the modern parchment, and cried aloud.  
"Translation of the Uncial Greek Writing on the Potsherd! How marvellous. What a dear chap for writing it all in plain English for me, I'm a little rusty with my Latin. But first! The letter. It should make things a lot clearer to begin with."

He took up the envelope, broke the seal without any show of delicacy or remorse, and pulled out a sheaf of equally new paper. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

"No more than two days old, the scents are fresh." he commented, "Turkish tobacco. Our friend wasn't lying when he told us he'd been abroad. Obviously he misses it. Also sweat. And sickness. He really was on his death bed. The handwriting trembles."

John leaned over his shoulder as Sherlock read aloud the awful ancient secrets of that pot sherd, smiling a glorious wry smile to himself, skipping out the parts he found unnecessary and emphasising those which most intrigued him.

"My Son Leo, when you open this... I shall have been long enough dead, blah blah blah... my voice speaks to you from the unutterable silence of the _grave_... My sufferings, physical and mental, are more than I can bear... At the best I could not live more than another year..."

"Poor devil." John muttered.

"Holly, my friend, will have told you something of the extraordinary antiquity of your race. The strange legend that you will find inscribed by your remote ancestress upon the pot sherd was communicated to me by my father on his deathbed, and took a strong hold upon my imagination... I determined to investigate its truth...

"On_ the coast of Africa, in a hitherto unexplored region_, some distance to the north of where the Zambesi falls into the sea, there is a headland, at the extremity of which a peak towers up, shaped like the head of a Negro... far inland are great mountains, shaped like cups, and _caves_ surrounded by measureless swamps... the people there speak a dialect of Arabic and are ruled over by a _beautiful white woman_, reported to have power over _all things living and dead_...

"I was wrecked upon the coast of Madagascar, my last illness seized me... to you I hand on these the results of my labor, to investigate what, if it is true, must be the _greatest mystery in the world_... if it can only be rediscovered there is a spot where the vital forces of the world visibly exist. _Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also?_

"I have so provided that you will not lack for means... He who would tamper with the vast and secret forces that animate the world may well fall a _victim_ to them... if at last you emerged from the trial ever beautiful and ever young, defying time and evil, and lifted above the natural decay of flesh and intellect, _who shall say that the awesome change would prove a happy one? _

"Choose, my son, and may the Power who rules all things, and who says 'thus far shalt thou go, and thus much shalt thou learn,' direct the choice to your own happiness and the happiness of the world... _Farewell_."


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

**Across the Gulf of Death.**

For some utterly silent moments the two men looked steadily at one another.  
Watson blinked a few times, but Holmes was as unmoving as a recently deceased man. Except for the light within his eyes, which was bouncing around like a spinning top and dancing like tall flames.

"The writing on the potsherd." John suggested, "Let's have a look at these translations and see if they will match."  
He reached once again to lift an item, and again was slapped away by Sherlock's viper-like hand.  
"Why aren't I allowed to read?" he grumbled.

His friend sniffed. "Well, I suppose I could let you. Just skip out the boring parts, if you will."

Unrolling the parchment felt a lot more significant than opening an envelope, Watson thought, as he did so. He browsed the words for a moment before beginning. Now it was Sherlock leaning over his shoulder, tapping impatiently with his foot.

"I, Amenartas, of the Royal House of the Pharaohs of Egypt, wife of Kallikrates (the Beautiful in Strength), a Priest of Isis, being about to die, to my little son Tisisthenes (the Mighty Avenger)."

John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he had stopped breathing, a sure sign that he was tightly clutched in the claws of delighted suspense. He had never felt the thrill of the chase rolling off his partner's body in such strong waves. It was overpowering. It seeped into his own muscles and made them tense and poised for action.

"I fled with thy father from Egypt in the days of Nectanebes, causing him through love to break the vow that he had vowed. We fled southward, across the waters, and we wandered for twice twelve moons on the coast of Libya (Africa) that looks towards the rising sun, where by a river is a great rock carven like the head of an Ethiopian.

"Four days on the water from the mouth of a mighty river were we cast away, and some were drowned and some died of sickness. But wild men took us through wastes and marshes, where the sea fowl hid the sky, bearing us ten days' journey till we came to a hollow mountain, where a great city had been and fallen, and where there are caves of which no man hath seen the end; and they brought us to the Queen of the people who place pots upon the heads of strangers, who is a magician having a knowledge of all things, and life and loveliness that does not die.

"And she cast eyes of love upon thy father, Kallikrates, and would have slain me, and taken him to husband, but he loved me and feared her, and would not. Then did she take us, and lead us by terrible ways, by means of dark magic, to where the great pit is, in the mouth of which the old philosopher lay dead, and showed to us the rolling Pillar of Life that dies not, whereof the voice is as the voice of thunder; and she did stand in the flames, and come forth unharmed, and yet more beautiful.

"Then did she swear to make thy father undying even as she is, if he would but slay me, and give himself to her, for me she could not slay because of the magic of my own people that I have, and that prevailed thus far against her. And he held his hand before his eyes to hide her beauty, and would not.

"Then in her rage did she smite him by her magic, and he died; but she wept over him, and bore him thence with lamentations: and being afraid, me she sent to the mouth of the great river where the ships come, and I was carried far away on the ships where I gave thee birth, and hither to Athens I came at last after many wanderings.

"Now I say to thee, my son, Tisisthenes, seek out the woman, and learn the secret of Life, and if thou mayest find a way slay her, because of thy father Kallikrates; and if thou dost fear or fail, this I say to all of thy seed who come after thee, till at last a brave man be found among them who shall bathe in the fire and sit in the Place of the Pharaohs."

"You could have summarised that into five sentences and saved us a world of time." Sherlock jibed.  
"_Everything _on that potsherd is interesting!"  
They both huffed, and turned away from one another.

There was a long pause in which John could positively hear the cogs of Sherlock's efficient brain turning.

"So it is true. Or rather, _believed_ to be true." Sherlock murmured to himself.  
"I knew it." John stated, referring to Holmes' keeping of information from him.

"Watson, may I presume that you are currently in the deepest grips of desperate curiosity and awe?"  
"I suppose you could say that."  
"Good. That's what I'd hoped. Now I can tell you the rest of what I know."

He sat back, folded his hands together and placed his chin upon them, eyeing Watson with a determined gaze that he didn't like one bit.

"Watson. I have been researching."  
"Well, of course you have."  
"My boys on the street have been poking around for weeks, now. I have studied the papers fervently. Lestrade has been pouring information into my ears almost every day. There is a new stir, Watson. Great things are afoot. I can feel it."

"Could we please skip the dramatics?"  
"I told you you would put a damper on my spirits! I told you!" Sherlock cried in earnest angst.  
"Just get on with it, then."

"There is a whisper - just a whisper - that Stewardson is on the move towards Africa."  
"Stewardson?"  
"Oh, Watson, keep up! The most sophisticated leading man of organised crime in London since last year! He owns more than half the brothels in the city. Nobody but myself knows that he was behind our last six major bank robberies. He is gathering money to himself like a queen bee - in other words, through the sheer force of his workers."

"You never told me about this Stewardson. You never tell me about anything until it will gain you the most melodrama."  
"I have been keeping an eye on him. Watching him play the game, knowing there was something more behind it all. Waiting to see if he did anything... interesting. And it has finally turned up, my lucky day! He has made a slip-up. Somebody has let his African cat out of the bag, onto the tongues of unreliable men. And now I know what he is up to."

"It's still not very clear to me. Why is he going to Africa?"  
"Weren't you reading everything in those letters, Watson? Honestly!"

"The whole matter is entirely confusing. Is this about that undying fire or whatever it is?"  
"Ahem. There is another whisper, Watson -"  
"I thought you said there was only one whisper."

"I said _just _a whisper, I didn't restrict it to a singular. There is _another_ whisper, and the whisper is made of four words. _The Spirit of Life_."  
"What?"

"It all says here, in this preposterous message! _Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also? _I tell you, Watson, this legacy of fathers and sons that we hold here in our hands is encouragement of a wild old tale about the discovery of eternal life. Of immortality. And it is _this _that Stewardson is after."

"How did he find out about the Spirit of Life if we have the casket with all of its information inside?"

"Howard Vincey. The man who owned this casket. Or rather, the _father_ of the man who _gave me _the casket. Family heirloom and all that. Stewardson learned of the Spirit of Life through word of mouth, my dear Watson, and through pure accident, mostly. It wasn't easy to discover where he had gotten his information from. At that time, before I had obtained the casket, I had never even heard of the name Vincey. But I listened very hard, and I read a lot, and I asked around even more. And with the whispers about Africa and Spirits, the name came seeping through, just once, and it was all I needed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I immediately located the current Vincey's household and paid him a friendly visit. I pretended to be a distant cousin, if you must know. I pulled it off. He was sick as a dog, on his deathbed even, so I feigned preliminary concern for my long lost relative, his illness being the reason I had turned up. I think he was delusional with pain and general unwellness, so he bought it easily."

"Holmes. You went in search of a dying man to collect evidence about the _whispers_ of a criminal?"

"I didn't know he was dying." Sherlock bit back haughtily, "Anyway, I managed to get him to talk, by deftly winding a weave of suggestion into the conversation. He mentioned the iron box once or twice, and then blurted out that his family's legacy was in jeapoardy. His father before him had once let slip, on a night of drunken enchantment, the story of the Vinceys' biggest secret to a friend called Stewardson. Aha! I thought, here we have our man, and his motives."

John tsked, but Holmes ignored him.

"Then, of course, the fellow started blabbering on about a son, and how the iron box must be delivered to him, and since I was a long lost and trustworthy cousin, he begged me to take it to Horace Holly, as he feared he would be dead very soon, and he didn't think he could make the journey."

"How awful for the poor fellow."  
"He was rather raving mad. He wouldn't tell me the contents of the chest, forbade me to open it, but pleaded that I take it to its new, rightful owner as quickly as possible."

"So you brought it straight here to open."  
"I brought it here for safekeeping. You were the one who decided to open it."  
"Was not!"

"Well anyway, here it is all opened, and now we know why Stewardson is heading for Africa, and likely why he turned criminal in the first place - to fund this amazing adventure and attain eternal life in the most elaborate style. Whilst betraying an old friend, and his friend's son. The fiend has been working his way up the law-breakers' ladder ever since, reaching a peak of lordship over all crime just this year.

The only thing that remains uncertain - that Vincey himself did not know - is whether his father showed Stewardson the actual contents of this casket. If he did, we shall be at a distinct disadvantage. Or at least, we won't have an advantage. Which is the same thing."

"What do you mean, disadvantage? How are we even going to try to prevent Stewardson from setting sail? And - even if there is a rumour about this Spirit of Life - why would we chase a criminal who is idiotic enough to pursue it? It is complete balderdash and you know it. He will come back from Africa empty handed, and we shall catch him then. If he comes back from that awful place at all."

"My dear, dear Watson! We cannot prevent Stewardson from setting sail. He is already leaving, this minute. And I propose that I would rather prove this 'balderdash' as balderdash with my own eyes, than wait around for a master of crime to come home a potential _immortal_. Can you imagine the difficulties an immortal and malicious genius could create for us?"

"But Holmes, there is no such thing as magic, let alone magic that could do this."

"Who says that it is magic? _Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also?_" he quoted once again, "I can conjure things using outlandish scientific experiments that you could not dream up in your wildest nightmares. New science, Watson. The age is racing ahead of us into the possibilities of the future. Who knows that the future is not bearing down upon us from ahead, impatient to engulf us in its horrors? If there is a scientific method of Nature whereby the human anatomy may be frozen in its age, then I shall be the one to discover it. No, don't look at me like that. You know that I think it is ridiculous too, but you know me too well to think that I could pass it up."

He was right. The manic idea had possessed him. It was already a part of him, gnawing away at his insides, hungry for more knowledge, for discovery and conclusion. John could see it working like the mechanisms of a great genius-machine behind those dark hazel eyes of his.

_The greatest mystery in the world_. It certainly sounded so.

"Holmes." he said, in a very resigned voice, "Are you trying to tell me that we are going to go to Africa?"

"Watson, don't interrupt when I am about to make an important statement." he snapped, evidently appalled by John's utter lack of artistic taste for suspense.

He picked up the pot sherd of ancient writing, tossed it in one hand for a moment, then placed every item very quickly and carefully into the casket, and then put the casket back into the ebony case, and the case back into the iron box.

He shut the lid with a resounding clang, and an air of great importance and determination.

Then he finally turned to John.

"Watson." he said, with that great smirk on his face that meant John was going to be in a lot of danger within a very short space of time, "We are going to Africa."


End file.
